Iphigenia
by hikachu
Summary: Rio is not naïve and Rio is not stupid.


Shark finds him standing before the door like a coward, with his right hand curled into a shaking, loose fist that can't decide whether to slip back into a pocket or knock against the shimmering plastic panel. It's an indecisiveness infused with guilt and regret also, and it should, perhaps, make Shark a little bit happy, if not grateful, because this guy, this bastard, this asshole is suffering too, but all that comes up is disgust curling at the back of his throat, heavy on his tongue. How dare you, is all Shark can think.

"What are you doing here?" he growls.

IV's back grows visibly stiff, straighter, making him look somewhat taller. When he turns around, the late morning light paints harsh shadows over his face.

"Ryoga," he drawls out in an attempt to sound like normal, like himself.

"Get out, she doesn't need to see you. And what's with the gaudy flowers?" Shark snarls, eying the large bouquet of orange-red roses dangling against IV's side as if waiting for it to catch fire if he stares with enough contempt. "Those would make anyone feel worse with just a glance."

IV doesn't mention that Rio can't see him or Ryoga or even the goddamned flowers as she is now, and why would he, when they're both obviously aware of the truth, and both would rather forget about it for a moment or two. He could bring up, at least, that it's not his fault this time, if she's stuck in a bed between life and death, but he does feel like it is: IV never even got a chance to apologize properly and that's an inescapable limbo in its own right.

He thrusts the bouquet into Shark's face, with the faint hope that it will make him angrier: a safeguard against the looming ghost of melancholy. Shark takes a step back to give himself the space to breathe air instead of the cloying scent of the roses. His vaguely horrified expression before a bunch of flowers goes hand in hand with his everyday tough guy charade, IV thinks.

"These 'gaudy flowers', as you call them, were imported straight from France only this morning. Besides," he motions toward the green gems on Shark's jacket with his chin, "you're one to preach about 'gaudy'."

Shark clicks his tongue but doesn't give up. "I didn't take you for the type of guy who enjoys gardening in his spare time," he says, and there is some truth in the remark.

The fact is, though, that there are things – unimportant things, frivolous things – that took roots into IV's brain over lazy afternoons where he had nothing better to do than listen, half-distracted, to his siblings and his father talk about this or that book or tea blend, and many other things that he would have never looked up on his own. Roses being one of those. Even so, it's true that it doesn't suit him, but IV never even got a chance to apologize properly and this is all he can do; and he feels, for some reason, that after all this time Ryoga making fun of him is better than Ryoga hating him. Perhaps, IV sighs, there really is something wrong with him.

"You know, III used to be such a crybaby," he recalls aloud. He's thinking back on the those afternoons at home; he remembers Michael's books, their shiny spines neatly sitting one after the other on the shelves of his room. One for each time their father spent weeks and weeks away from home and every birthday and all the times IV wanted to apologize but couldn't find the right words. "There was this story that he kept pestering V to read for him for—Hell if know how many nights in a row, even though he ended up bawling his eyes out every time: a princess is called by her father to the docks where he is about to leave for war in another country, with the promise of marriage to a hero of noble blood. Too bad her father is deceiving her, and the little princess ends up being sacrificed to the angry goddess that kept the king's ships from sailing with strong winds. I never got the appeal of boring old stories, but I guess he..."

IV first sees the shift in Shark's posture; he sees the muscles of his jaw tightening and realizes what he just said—perhaps, why he said it too. Then, he expects Shark to punch him, or push him against the wall, which Shark does, but, surprisingly, it's not strong enough to make it hurt. It's not strong enough to be anything more than an empty gesture of frustration because Rio is not naïve and Rio is not stupid, she doesn't care for silly things like marriage and—surely—she wouldn't let herself be killed like that, not without putting up a fight, not to appease the anger of some self-entitled deity—

Shut up, Shark says, shut up, he hisses, and his shirt is sticking to his shoulder blades because he's drenched in cold sweat. He's not sure he knows whom he is addressing.

"Ryoga..."

IV's eyes are wide. His expression is open and wondering; it doesn't suit him at all. Shark feels as though as he's going mad – has been feeling that way from time to time lately – and thinks that IV too knows that he is, now.

But IV only says, I'll go, and drops the roses into Shark's arms.

* * *

In the elevator, IV is alone with his reflection, which greets him from the large mirror that takes up the entire wall in front of the sliding doors. It greets him, with a face that reminds him of a crumpled piece of paper. "That's a real pathetic look you've got there, friend," he laughs at himself because there isn't anything else he can do. Interacting with people who aren't family is a difficult, difficult thing. Considering someone a friend is not enough to make that friendship real, after all.

* * *

Shark considers throwing out the roses, but decides against it when he pictures Rio laughing at the ridiculously flamboyant colors with him. He decides to allow himself to believe that she'll wake up before they wither and die, that everything will be back to how it was and he will stop feeling like he isn't himself anymore, and lets them slide into the vase on her bedside table. He lets the roses become a countdown of hope.


End file.
